


The Starwood Chronicle

by Lukra (49percentchanceofbees)



Category: Flight Rising
Genre: Gen, Journalism, Newspapers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-14
Updated: 2019-05-05
Packaged: 2019-09-12 14:26:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16874580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/49percentchanceofbees/pseuds/Lukra
Summary: As part of their takeover of Clan Lukra, Lioska and Aridatha promised Cypress that he could start a newspaper. That might be a little more complicated than Cypress expected, though ...





	1. Chapter 1

Illyan really hoped she had found the right arcane valley deep in the Starwood Strand. The directions had been pretty clear, but she possessed an unfortunate tendency to get lost once she ventured out of sight of her workshop. And this journey had taken her very far from her workshop. Theoretically, there would be a new workshop at the end of it. In practice … well, Illyan would see.

She stepped cautiously between the first two tree-houses. They were clearly inhabited, but there was no indication of where Illyan should actually go. The one at her left smelled rather strongly of blood and decay. Over on the right, she could see a red pearlcatcher napping in a window, two floors up.

There seemed to be some kind of commotion ahead. Illyan advanced cautiously, to find a coatl and a ridgeback apparently arguing while several other dragons stood around watching.

“Don’t think no one noticed how you managed to skip out on all the hard work,” the coatl said. The ridgeback just grinned. “Every other large dragon in the clan was making three rounds a day and you’re nowhere to be seen. And now that everything’s all comfy, you just come slithering back.”

The ridgeback’s expression was full of teeth, more teeth than it seemed should fit in one mouth. “Sure, I played hooky. Unlike you, the paragon of helpfulness, who flew five loads in half the time.”

“I did everything asked of me!”

“And you were hardly asked.”

A red and gold skydancer, perched on a low branch in a nearby tree, began to chant, “Fight, fight, fight, fight, fight, fight!” No one seemed to have noticed Illyan. A green fae joined the chant, bobbing on the end of a branch like an unripe fruit.

“They are _not_ going to fight.” The new player in this drama was a guardian, roused from a seat by the stream. “That would be extremely foolish – Kelsus, stop that.”

“Oh, come on,” said the skydancer. “It’s not like we have any other entertainment on tap for the afternoon.”

“If you’re so bored, go ask Aridatha to find a use for you,” the guardian said. “I’m sure there are plenty of things that need doing around the lair.”

The skydancer flicked her head and then flew away. The guardian turned to look at the others. “All right, you’ve had your fun. Find something better to do, everyone.”

Several of the spectators turned away, including a blue crystal imperial who caught Illyan’s eye mostly because he was gorgeous and walked like he knew it. The ridgeback seemed ready to let it go, too, but the coatl persisted.

“Doesn’t it bother you, Geras, that while you worked your wings off to get everything here, Moros was off sunning herself and eating bonbons?”

“I don’t think anyone’s been eating bonbons,” the guardian said, rather dryly. She glanced around and paused, spotting Illyan. “Oh, hello. Are you new? Just arrived? Look, Wanderer, you’re making a fuss in front of a guest.”

“Best get used to it,” muttered the ridgeback. The coatl bared his teeth but then snorted and left, head held high, back claws kicking up dust. The ridgeback shrugged and moved off as well.

“I’m Geras,” the guardian said, to Illyan. The green fae had landed on her head, and she barely seemed to notice. “What brings you here?”

“I received a job offer.” Illyan held up her invitation, a rather battered scroll. “I’m Illyan. I’m a printer.”

“Oh. You’d better talk to Aridatha. She’s in charge. Go see if she’s in her room, would you, Kelsus?”

The green fae fluttered into one of the trees and reappeared a moment later, followed by a blue pearlcatcher, who glided down to stand between Illyan and Geras.

“I’m Aridatha,” she said. “You’re the printer Lioska sent for?”

“Yes,” Illyan said. Geras, clearly finding her part in the conversation concluded, gave Illyan a friendly wave as she went back to the stream, where some centaurs in a fenced-in enclosure seemed to be trying to get her attention. Kelsus went with her, since he’d resettled in on her head. “My name is Illyan. I’m a girl.”

Illyan rather hoped that would be all she had to say on that subject. Aridatha looked Illyan up and down for a moment, frowning and puzzled, and Illyan grit her teeth. But the other pearlcatcher only said, “You’re not exactly carrying a press. We don’t have one, unless you can build it from scratch.”

“It’s not exactly practical for me to carry a press,” Illyan replied. “I’ll send word back to my workshop and have them disassemble it and send the pieces on. If I stay.”

Aridatha was sharp; her eyes gleamed at the last bit. “And that is currently in doubt?”

Illyan shrugged. “I just got here. I don’t even know yet if I can do what you’re asking for. Which is … ?”

“Ah. Please follow me.” Aridatha turned and headed south, splashing through the stream. Illyan leapt across, unsure if she’d regret wet talons later. They passed a huge building made of wood and hide, and a great lean-to where the blue imperial Illyan had noticed earlier slept. Aridatha led Illyan into the lower floor of one of the tree-structures, a large room with several sides open to the elements.

“This is where you’d be working,” Aridatha said, peering at the ceiling. She called, “Cypress! Get down here; the printer’s here.”

“Did you know that there’s a fish that tries to seduce its predators?” said a bright voice from above. “Bellus glamortail. Oh, hello.”

A head appeared through a gap in the ceiling. It was a skydancer, earrings hanging all askew since he was upside down. A brown cap floated lazily to the floor.

“Shade,” the skydancer swore, dropping down and grabbing the hat, which he jammed back on his head.

“Gravity takes you by surprise again?” Aridatha said. “This is Illyan. Illyan, Cypress. The two of you are intended to work together, no? I’m not clear on all the details; mostly Lioska has been handling this project.”

“We’re supposed to create a newspaper,” Cypress said. “Whatever that is. Lioska brought me some samples, if you want to take a look.”

“I would,” Illyan said, and Cypress jumped back through the hole he’d come from. She could hear him rummaging for something up above.

“I’ll go, then,” Aridatha said, looking at the inside of her wrist. Illyan thought that was odd until she saw words scribbled there – a to-do list, perhaps. “I’ll send Lioska by if I see her. Let me know whether you decide to stay, all right?”

“Sure,” Illyan said. She watched Aridatha leave, then turned to Cypress, who had sheets of paper in his fore-claws and also three in his mouth. “All right, show me.”


	2. Chapter 2

Somehow while Illyan wasn’t looking Cypress had acquired a large slate to hang from the wall of her workshop, and now he paced in front of it, a piece of chalk tucked into his hat. On the slate he’d written “NAMES” and underlined it.

“Are you nesting?” Illyan asked, purposefully dense. “Isn’t it someone else’s job to name the hatchlings?”

That ruffled his feathers, she saw with satisfaction. It took Cypress a moment to realize she was joking, and then he laughed and shook his head.

“Names for our newspaper, Illyan.” Cypress had tacked the paper samples Lioska had acquired for them to the wall as well, and now he went and tapped each one. “All of these have a title, a name that tells everyone what they’re getting into. So we need one too. I’ve come up with a few ideas.”

He began to write on the slate, saying as he did so, “These are all geographically named – you can tell from the title where they’re located. And that seems the logical way to do it. So we have ‘Arcane,’ ‘Starfall,’ ‘Starwood’ – ‘Starwood Chronicle,’ ‘Starfall Times, ‘Arcane Inquirer’ …”

“We are not going to be the Inquirer,” said a nocturne whom Illyan could have sworn was not in the room a moment ago.

Cypress looked up. “Frip? I didn’t realize you would be joining us.”

“Someone has to keep you from making a horrible mistake.” Frip settled in beside Illyan, folding her claws before her. “Any permutation of the Inquirer or Enquirer is off the table. Post and Globe, too.”

“Are you just going to tell us things we can’t do?” Illyan asked. “Don’t you have any suggestions?”

“That’s not how it works,” Frip said, frowning. “I’m just veto power. I can’t create this for you; that would be cheating.”

“How what works, exactly?” Illyan raised up onto her haunches, very prepared for an extensive discussion of the issue. She hadn’t been in the clan long enough to know Frip very well, but she’d heard enough rumors to make her curious about the nocturne’s nature – and why she often unobtrusively hung around the print shop.

Cypress hopped between the two of them, shaking his head. “Can we deal with Frip’s enigmatic nonsense another time?”

“I’m sure it will be front page news once you get past print tests,” Frip said, as Illyan subsided. “The print tests are going well, I hope?”

“Quite,” Illyan said. It had taken some time for all of the components of her movable type printing press to arrive in Clan Lukra’s domain. Actually, a couple pieces had mysteriously gone missing, lost somewhere along the way – but Illyan had managed to replace them, with help from Acrux and his workshop. “And Cypress has been working on copy. We just have to see if he’ll ever settle on something.”

“Illyan!”

Illyan smirked at Cypress. “Even on the print tests, he comes running to stop me five seconds in because he’s got to change a phrase.”

“Hardly an uncommon phenomenon,” Frip said.

“If we could get back to the matter at hand,” Cypress said. It was unlike him to act so unwilling to be sidetracked, but clearly, he didn’t enjoy digressing when it was about his conduct.

“Permutations and commutations,” Frip muttered. “I can’t remember the difference precisely … Anyway, I think you’ve already made up your mind, don’t you, Illyan?”

Illyan stared at the nocturne. It was true: as they’d discussed their progress, one of the names Cypress had suggested had settled into the back of her mind, inexorably inuring her to its presence, until it hovered on the tip of her tongue. But how had Frip …

“Illyan?” Cypress said.

“It’s not my decision,” Illyan said. Cypress and Frip just kept looking at her, and she sighed. “But I am rather fond of the Starwood Chronicle.”

“That sounds perfectly all right to me,” Cypress said. Illyan could see him mouthing the words, testing out how they sounded, before he nodded. “I suppose I’ll have to run it by Aridatha or Lioska first.”

“And thereby hangs a tale,” Frip murmured. “What happens when you have a story to tell that doesn’t please Lia and Ari?”

Illyan and Cypress both frowned at Frip for a moment, before the nocturne shrugged, stood, and took her leave.

“I think we’ll be ready to print it for real soon,” Cypress said, after a pause occasioned by Frip’s departure. “So I’d better light along to Aridatha.”

“I’ll start setting the masthead,” Illyan said, turning to her trays of type.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Isildur points out some errors in the first issue of the clan newspaper, the Starwood Chronicle, published by Illyan and Cypress.

“What is this?” Isildur asked, slapping a piece of paper onto the ground in front of Illyan.

Illyan looked incuriously at the product of all her and Cypress’s hard work. “It sure does look like a sheet of paper.”

“I am aware,” Isildur said, her tone beginning to take on talking-to-idiots notes. “I’m more concerned with what’s written on the paper.”

Illyan toyed with the idea of pretending that she didn’t know how to read. Isildur tapped a particular column of newsprint. “The technical side of your printing is impressive, but my name doesn’t have an E in it. Barholme’s does. And you’ve got rampaging comma splices.”

“Oh dear,” Illyan said with absolutely no concern. “Well, you’d have to take that up with Cypress. I just typeset the thing; he writes it.”

“Where can I find him?” Isildur asked.

Illyan pointed at the ceiling. Isildur looked up, glanced back down at Illyan, and sighed. “I don’t suppose you’d be inclined to lend me an introduction?”

“Can I take it back afterwards?” Illyan asked. “No, you un-suppose correctly.”

“Very well.” Isildur reached for one of the holes in the ceiling and scrambled up to the second floor. Illyan, realizing rather belatedly that there went her source of entertainment for the afternoon, put her head through another, smaller hole to watch.

Cypress was sleeping, curled up against the tree trunk in a nest of blankets. Isildur picked her way delicately across the floor to him and placed a claw on his shoulder.

“You’re really sparkly,” Cypress said, blinking groggily. Illyan bit down on her claw to keep from laughing. All her hopes for amusement had been answered.

“Yes, I am.” Isildur’s tone dripped with disdain. “I am here about your newspaper. It’s wrong.”

Cypress’ feathers flared and he stood up, the sudden movement making Isildur step back. “What do you mean, it’s wrong?”

“It’s full of mistakes. Misspellings, syntax errors, style inconsistencies.” Isildur handed Cypress the paper she’d shown Illyan. “I’ve noted some of them, though I would not swear I have them all.”

“Oh …” Now Cypress’ feathers drooped. “I didn’t realize. I – Illyan?”

Shade. They’d seen her watching; it was too late for Illyan to duck back down and return to her press. “Yes?”

“What do we do about this?”

“You’re asking me?” Illyan sounded almost as doubtful as Isildur looked.

“You’re the printer.”

“You’re the writer.”

“Illyan.” Notes of disapproval entered Cypress’ voice, which was a bit rich. She hadn’t been his nursemaid – it wasn’t her fault that he couldn’t spell.

“Well, no one else has complained,” Illyan said. She had a deep suspicion that the lack of complaints stemmed less from the paper’s quality and more from its tiny audience. Honestly, she was a bit surprised to learn that anyone was even reading the thing. It wasn’t like they’d put much effort into distributing it. Cypress had personally delivered copies to Aridatha, Lioska, Frip, and Bartos, but other than that, there was just a big pile of them sitting outside Illyan’s print shop, with a rock on top to keep them from blowing away in the afternoon breeze. Maybe they should remove the rock – the afternoon breeze could be a means of distribution.

“Bartos has,” Isildur said, with considerable self-satisfaction.

“He has?” asked Cypress.

“I believe his exact words were ‘I can’t possibly be bothered to read this if they can’t take the time to proofread it,’ before he tore it up to use as bookmarks.”

“Oh.” Cypress’ feathers drooped even further. He looked positively deflated.

Illyan supposed she ought to come to her new comrade’s defense. “Look, if you spot all these mistakes, why don’t you fix them? Before they’re printed, I mean, because after’s really no help.”

Isildur tapped a talon on her chin. “An interesting proposition. But I already have a job that occupies much of my time, even if I have found it rather more … monotonous than I intended.”

“How unfortunate,” said Illyan.

“Isn’t it?” Isildur said. She turned away. “I suppose your paper will simply have to remain … riddled with errors.”

Cypress watched the other skydancer leave with a hangdog look. Illyan poked him in the side. “Hey, you can’t let one uppity bird get you down.”

She left off the rest of the sentiment – that if their project ever did take off, they’d have _lots_ of readers to pounce on every little mistake – as she didn’t think it’d be helpful at this juncture.

“I guess you’re right,” Cypress said, but he still sounded discouraged. He picked up the edited copy Isildur had left them. “I’m going to go look over the latest drafts.”

Illyan slipped back to her own floor with an uneasy feeling that she was going to have to do something about this. Arcanist, but she hated having to actually solve problems.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aleru joins Clan Lukra as the Starwood Chronicle’s new artist, after an interview with Lioska, Cypress, Isildur, and Illyan.

The mirror shifted uncomfortably as Lioska looked through her portfolio of drawings. They were stark, minimalist – stylish. But Lioska did not let on that she approved.

“Your style …” she said instead, careful to sound uncertain, ever-so-slightly judgmental. “It’s unusual. Some might find it off-putting.”

“Some would have to seek their visual delights elsewhere, then.” The mirror shrugged, a quick twitch of the wings.

“Personally, I like it,” Cypress interjected, unhelpfully.

“Aleru’s use of negative space shows considerable technical skill and imagination,” said Isildur, tilting her head to review the drawings – for perhaps the fourth or fifth time – as Lioska flipped through them. “Not, mind, that I am any great judge of art. But certainly the Chronicle’s visual design could not be made worse.”

At the moment, the clan’s newspaper had no artist; each issue came out as a simple list of plain, cramped text.

“That use of negative space also keeps the ink cost low,” Illyan pointed out.

“I believe the word I received of this position was out of date,” Aleru herself commented, looking around the open-walled room in which they stood. From this meeting chamber she could see most of the Inner Sanctum. “I got the impression that you were not so … established.”

“Is that a problem?” Lioska asked, raising her head.

The mirror met her eyes, Nature-green to Nature-green – to Nature-green, counting Aleru’s second pair. “No. I’ll simply have to adjust my expectations.”

“You seem to exhibit an admirable ability to do so.” Lioska glanced at the stack of letters beside Aleru’s portfolio: references from clans she’d previously lived and worked with. “Well, I see no issues here. If the Chronicle’s current creators wish to have you – ”

“We do,” said Cypress.

“Then you’re hired.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Illyan's death and the [destruction](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17688047/chapters/42318431) of the _Chronicle's_ headquarters, a new mechanic, [Ayers](http://flightrising.com/main.php?dragon=49236389), arrives to rebuild. [Isildur](http://flightrising.com/main.php?dragon=24321014) shows her around.

It took a full day for Ayers to even get into the lair itself, which rather annoyed her -- it wasn’t as if she were some petitioner coming to knock at their door; they had called her here, sent for her, practically begged. The innkeeper explained that they were simply very busy and she had to wait until they could reckon with her arrival -- until someone from the newspaper could find time to show her around and take her questions -- but she’d been expected, hadn’t she? The delay certainly didn’t give her a good feeling about the new clan she sought to join. If they were so disorganized …

 

But finally before noon on her second day in the Pilgrim’s Rest, a crystalline skydancer came mincing over to Ayers and called her name.

 

“Yes?” Ayers said, raising a claw.

 

“Ah.” The skydancer approached her. “My name is Isildur. I am here to take you to see our printing press, or what’s left of it.”

 

That phrasing didn’t exactly bode well, either. As Ayers followed Isildur to the big door at the back of the inn, she said, “Your letter said that your press was in disrepair.”

 

Isildur chuckled dryly. “That would be Cypress’ optimistic phrasing. It’s a bit … smashed.”

 

“How smashed?”

 

“A tree fell on it.” Taking a key from her mantle, Isildur unlocked a small door set into the larger door and ushered Ayers inside, locking it again behind them. “We made some efforts to get it back together, but we felt unsure of the best path for reassembly. Acrux does have parts, though -- he’s had some success reverse-engineering the most destroyed pieces; we just don’t know how they go back together.”

 

“I see.” Ayers could hear her own dissatisfaction in her voice, and no doubt Isildur could too.

 

“You’ll truly see shortly.” They’d emerged into a large clearing cradled by ridges of pink crystal, with structures erected around each of the great star wood trees. Now Isildur led Ayers across the stream that cut through the clearing and to a pair of fallen trunks, one leaning across the other. A yellow snapper sat under the spot where the trunks converged; she nodded absently at Isildur and Ayers before returning to examining the half-crushed branches.

 

“That’s Melasune,” Isildur said. “She is a new arrival as well. Her lookout is architecture and the care of the trees: she will figure out how to rebuild around them. As I understand it, she has some idea of standing this one back up again … You may have occasion to collaborate with her, so that her designs accommodate the press and suit our purposes.”

 

“Should I go introduce myself?” Ayers said.

 

“Let me show you the press first.” Isildur beckoned Ayers on under a sheet of canvas hastily tied up to create a lean-to against the stump.

 

Ayers stood silent for a long moment on entering, just staring. As Isildur moved to speak, she let out a long sigh. “Well, I can see I’ve got my work cut out for me.”

 

“But you can do it? You  _ will _ do it?”

 

“Yep.” Ayers started picking up gears. At least someone had laid them out in an orderly fashion, sorted by size. “Might as well get started. You got a wrench?”


End file.
